


Temple of Love

by grumpyphoenix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, OFC - Freeform, OMC - Freeform, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:06:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyphoenix/pseuds/grumpyphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel treads a careful balance in his life, but pleasing a pimp is always the same, whether he's a spirit or a mortal man. Given that he needs to deal with both, he walks a careful tightrope that soon grows dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> at the time I have edited this note, I have not updated this fiction in just about 2 years. It will change. I got trapped by the tags I'd left on this thing, and so I've decided to take almost everything except the archive warning tags off. I can't write if I'm trying to conform everything to the tags. It isn't the only thing that's gotten in the way; I literally couldn't move my arms for nearly a year of that. Anyway, updates will start trickling in.

Consciousness filters through to him in stages. Light, then sound, then sensation. He can hear a mellow classical tune, which some automatic part of his brain tells him meant he’d set his alarm to ‘radio’ again by accident, and that it was probably afternoon. Neither the Bach nor the bright light would be enough to keep him awake, except that he is in a lot of pain, and really needs the bathroom. For a time, he lies there inhaling the distinctive scent of his blankets, trying to ignore it. Eventually, though, he pries his eyes open, and gingerly starts to move.

He is still clothed, although they give the appearance of having been thrown back on him after a serious struggle. He stinks, and his wrists are bruised. As he sits up, a fluttering sound draws his attention as a pile of bills unstick themselves from his shirt and lands on the bed. Well, at least he’d been paid this time. He staggers into the bathroom to assess the damage. Bruised wrists, yes, bruised cheek, split lip. He carefully takes his shirt off. Beaten enthusiastically with something stiff, likely a belt. He pauses, shaking a little. If he continues to undress, he already knows what he’d find, just by moving his body: he can feel the ache in his ass, his thighs. He doesn’t want to, but he’d have to take his pants off eventually. He can’t just live here in this room, half dressed for eternity. He’d have to take care of it. 

Instead, he washes his face. He brushes his teeth, and throws the toothbrush away. He stands for a long time, staring into his own eyes in the mirror. Familiar blue, dark outer ring, his cheekbones, his lips. Familiar black tousled hair. He runs a hand through it, pulling a little, grounding himself. He holds his wrist to his nose and inhales deeply. Sandalwood, his own perfume. It settles his resolve, and opening his eyes, he looks into his reflection again. Keeping eye contact with himself in the mirror, he slowly undoes the button on his jeans and works them over his hips, turning to look his body over using the full length mirror on the back of the door. Then he throws up. 

An hour later, showered, pain medication taken, he gingerly moves through his kitchen. Breakfast is a must, he knows this. He has to eat, to get his blood sugar under control now because later he would be a disaster. Eggs. Toast. He makes hot tea because coffee is too much work at this point, especially after having to actually cook eggs. Shopping. He has to go shopping. While the eggs sit and sizzle in a pan, he rummages through his cabinets. Sugar, salt, flour. He inspects the bag of flour with a small frown. He really needs to go shopping. After the eggs have been half devoured he clears and cleans the table, sitting with his tea on a nearby stool, running his fingers over the thick, hand glazed pottery. He knows that he can’t put this off for too much longer, but he can at least enjoy the warmth from the tea, and the tactile comfort from his favorite mug. He needs to take every moment to ground himself back in his own identity, in his own skin.

Putting down the tea, he reluctantly picks up the bag of flour, drawing a circle around the table and himself. Pursing his lips at the amount left in the bag, he upends it on top of the table as well. In the center he places a well-worn copper bowl. With one finger, he begins to trace symbols into the flour as he chants, words his mouth had long ago become comfortable shaping; perfected and light on the tongue. Into the bowl he flings a poptart with a bit of a wince, and squirts the last tiny bit of honey on top of it, the plastic bear making a funny spluttering noise under the sounds of his chanting. 

There’s a breathless pause, and then a wry male voice behind him says “Castiel. Poptarts? Really?” He closes his eyes briefly, turning around to face the newly arrived figure in the living room doorway. The spirit had really gotten the hang of looking human. In the beginning, he had appeared the way Castiel imagined the ancient Incans or the Mesopotamians or the Romans saw him; a barely human shape, exuding power and lust and temptation. Over time his visage had changed into someone who resembled a mix of two people he’d always found irresistible: a classic movie star dead way before his time, and a certain starship captain. So he’d taken to calling the spirit James, or sometimes Jim. It seemed to be amused by the practice, and that was probably not great, all things considered. The only thing that had never changed were his eyes. They remained green, but never the same shade. Sometimes they were a light grass green that went with a delighted smile, and other times they were a green ringed in gold, dangerous, and reminiscent of a tiger; a tiger crouched and waiting. 

“Hello, James. “ Castiel bows to him. “I apologize. I have been unable to get anything proper to offer to you, I promise to remedy that.” 

James smirks slightly, pacing around the circle and keeping eye contact. “So you say. I think you’ve been neglecting me on purpose.“ He leans as far forward as he can, and despite the circle, Castiel flinches. James smiles at it, drawing back to rest against the kitchen counter. “You know full well if you gave me a proper sacrifice, I could do so much more. So I think…” James lets a silence stretch between them before speaking through a shark’s smile, “I think you do it to keep your lovely ass intact.” 

Castiel swallows hard, unable to break eye contact, even if it had been advisable. “James, please, I meant no disrespect.” He pauses, shaking a little now from effort, and sinks to his knees, baring his neck as much as he can without letting go of James’s eyes. He waits. He aches to lower his eyes. He is so very tired. The energy to keep the circle powered is just too much for him right now, and the price that keeping the spirit’s gaze takes on top of it is draining him too fast.

James likes to see him like this. Castiel can see the slow spread of satisfaction come over the spirit’s face, his green eyes glowing slightly as they catch the fading afternoon light from the kitchen window. His voice softens, “You are so irresistible when you beg, Castiel. One day, it will get you into more trouble than you can handle.” 

James crouches in front of him, inches away from his face, separated only by circle and will. “What will you ask of me, Castiel, as if I did not know?

“What, O Spirit,“ Castiel murmurs, his breath hot against James’s lips, “The fuck happened last night?” 

James’s smile grows brittle, but he stays motionless. “What do you remember?”

Castiel runs his nails over his thighs absently, “I remember making an appointment with a new client. Not a special client, just normal work. I met him at his hotel room. He was handsome, and I thought... well it was a little unbelievable how sexy this guy was. I thought that I’d really hit the jackpot. Too good to be true, I guess. I should have walked away.

“If I’m being honest, I think I remember some of the night as a dream.” His nails dig into his thighs as a series of foggy memories hit him like a jack hammer, and he doubles over, gasping for air and breaking eye contact with the spirit. “Oh, oh fuck, I was possessed, wasn’t I? How the hell did he do it without... fuck, did he drug me?” Castiel pulls at his hair, trying to calm down. “What did I do? What did he do to me?”

James tilts his head to watch, absently poking at the circle with one finger, testing. “Castiel. Sacred Vessel. Calm yourself.

“Your client kept me from his rooms with some extremely potent and very specific sets of wards. The spirit of a long dead maid has been wandering the halls of that hotel for years. I promised her oblivion if she would go and spy for me. What she told me is most lurid. Your client has a unique way of interrogating the dead. He trapped a spirit within your body, and then tortured you until it told him what he needed to know. Ingenious, really. He just needed the body of a sensitive, willing or not. I suspect it was easier to simply drug you.“ James pushes against the circle holding him out, just a little. For effect, probably. 

Castiel scoots backwards instinctively. The room feels foreign, far away. The floor begins to lurch, and he panics. He cannot lose consciousness now, the circle would be weak at best, and James would break through. He has so much more he needs to know, but he can’t do it now. As he begins the chant to send James home, the spirit begins to wheedle him, playfully begging to be allowed to stay. 

“Let me touch you, Castiel. It would be good. I promise, I promise not to hurt you. I know you want this, I can see it on your face every time you summon…” He fades out of the kitchen, and Castiel lets out a breath, closing his eyes. He is tempted to sleep right here on the floor, but finally drags himself up, and shuffles into the living room. His couch is here, and it’s his favorite thing in the entire apartment, aside from his mug. Across the back of his soft, well-worn nest of comfort is a handmade quilt, which he pulls over himself as he sinks into the couch and the welcoming arms of sleep.

Castiel wakes with the dawn, feeding the woodstove in the den, and cleaning up the kitchen. Though he hurts still, his sleep was deep and restorative. He has a niggling suspicion that James has had a hand in that, though he doesn’t care to examine how. He needs to visit his doctor, and then, he’s not sure. Seeing the police is out of the question, really. In his experience, the fact that he’s been paid to have sex with someone always seems to distract them from whatever it was the ‘client’ had done. Never mind the fact that he could be locked up for even talking about the spirit part. He puts off calling the doctor by cleaning up the flour, and then by shopping. Then he makes a dozen special cakes for James, and stores them in Tupperware. He looks up his client list and finds the man in question: 'Heyer'. He’s only put the man's last name as a precaution there, but now he finds he can’t remember the whole thing. Staring at his name doesn’t make this at all better. He underlines his name in red. He puts a frownie face next to it. He fiddles with his phone, spinning it in circles on his tabletop, and nearly drops it on the floor when it rings. 

He answers it, wincing and sighing when he hears the voice on the other end of the line. “Sam. Yes, I need to… I’m sorry, I just… I was. Yes, Sam. I will be there in a half hour. “ 

Castiel vhangs upwith a sigh. Well, he didn’t have to procrastinate any more. His doctor had called him. He wasn’t even surprised at this point. Sam had a way of knowing when he’d been hurt, and Castiel would find it spooky if he wasn’t talking to the dead on such a regular basis; who was he to say something was spooky or weird. 

He goes upstairs and opens the small wooden box on his dresser, within which are a lot of small perfume vials. Each one of these gives him a sense of who he was at the moment. Sandalwood is the scent he uses when he goes out to meet a client as himself, and his body responds to the smell appropriately; tension, excitement, arousal, and the edges of fight or flight. Now, though, he uses a light lemongrass scent that tells him he is himself in private life; calmer, a little closed off. When he spends most of his time being someone else, he needs the visceral reminder of who he is. Castiel fills a messenger bag with writing materials and goes out to catch a bus. 

Sam’s office is busy, as always, but the secretary gives him a knowing smile, and puts him on the top of the list. He tamps down the spike of irritation that always comes up when they look at him like that. He can’t blame them for thinking he is Sam’s boyfriend, really. If he’s being honest, Sam is a catch; kind, steady, and intelligent with a smile that lights up the room. It’s more on the behalf of Sam’s wife that Castiel is irritated. Sam’s wife was named Jessica. Jessica had a penchant for Chanel, which Castiel always has a hard time washing off, and every month her ghost possesses Castiel; whatever it was she and Sam did in the privacy of their moments afterwards was their own business. He knows that sometimes Sam will take Jessica on a date, which meant they’d be seen together in public. Castiel doesn't mind, but he often wonders what it costs Sam. The two of them have cultivated a friendship outside of this arrangement, which only muddies the waters, but Castiel couldn’t care; he has few enough friends as it is, because sooner or later things get weird around him.  
His name is called and he follows the smirking nurse into the waiting room but does not let her touch him. He can’t stand it suddenly; her assumptions, and the look that he knows would come over her face as she saw the bruises. He just irritably waves her off, and waits there in silence.

He waits, and every second makes the jitters worse. He picks up random pamphlets. He reads about STDs, about cholesterol. He reads the diagram of the human body on the back of the door. He paces, fucking with his phone, looking at twitter, Instagram, Facebook. He can hear Sam outside, making meaningless small talk with the nurses. Castiel grinds his teeth. Sam is making a show for the nurses, taking longer than necessary to get to him. He suddenly can’t take it anymore, knocking on the door, three times in a quick rhythm. He can hear Sam’s voice falter, and then there it is. The fake laugh Sam has when he’s nervous. Castiel backs away from the door just in time to have it miss smacking him in the head by maybe an inch. Sam has to step in even more to close the door behind him, putting him within kissing distance of Castiel, and for a mad second, Castiel almost does it, just to see what Sam would do. Instead, he backs off, jamming his hands under his arms, closing off. He catches a glimpse of the nurse as the door closes, and winks at her. It makes Sam uncomfortable. Castiel can see that Sam is past the point of teasing, but he does it anyway, raising an eyebrow and deliberately letting his eyes travel up and down the length of his body, enjoying the way the back of Sam’s neck turns scarlet almost instantly, and his eyes lock on Castiel’s. The moment lasts just a hair too long before Sam raises a brow and steps back, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Castiel. You look like you really need help. Will you can it, please?” Sam changes posture suddenly, offering a hand to Castiel, his voice going soft and gentle, his oddly colored greenish-brown eyes searching for something in Castiel’s face. Sam pleads, “Please let me in? Please, let me help you.”

Castiel begins to crumble. He falls apart under Sam’s gaze, sitting down on a chair heavily and unloading it all, head cradled in his hands. Sam listens to him. His hands are gentle, and he slowly helps Castiel to disarm himself, pressing slightly to allow an examination. Castiel can’t disagree. No one knows his body like Sam, and his gentle voice and light touch brings him slowly back down from the hysterical edge he’s been riding all day. He surfs along, buoyed by soft eyes, by the long silky curtain of his hair. He is lifted by concern, by care, by the familiar way Sam has with him. As if they were really lovers. 

He comes out of his fugue when Sam lightly taps his cheek. His brow is creased in worry, and Castiel hates that he made that look happen. 

“I couldn’t get you to respond. Castiel, a lot of these are going to be horrible bruises, but you’ll be okay. Keep an eye on how you feel for a few days, just to be safe.” Sam stops and takes a breath, and then starts stammering. 

“Castiel, you said you were… that your client…” Sam grits his teeth. Castiel absently wonders if he’d have this hard a time talking about this if he was any other patient. He’s such a sweet person, so probably.

“The client raped me.” Castiel says it flatly, interruptting to save them both. His eyes search Sam’s. “He raped me, Sam, and he did it without a condom. I need you to do tests for me.“ 

Sam twists his hands together, but is prodded into action by Castiel’s sharp tone. He leaves to go and get a nurse, but on his way out, he cups Castiel’s cheek with one shaking hand, and looks him in the eye. As the door closes, Castiel lets out a hard puff of air. He didn’t even realize he’d been worried about it, but Sam’s not going to back off and leave him alone with this. Sam’s not going anyplace.

Sam makes Castiel take a nap, firmly walking him into his office and offering up the large overstuffed couch. He is given something small and white to take which ends up sending delicious trails of sleep through his body. The couch is like a soft dream, and it smells thoroughly of Sam which makes it comforting and quiet. When he wakes up, it’s approaching evening and he can hear Sam typing on the computer; for crying out loud, even his keystrokes are gentle. He watches his friend type, amused at how he can be both relaxed and amazingly tense at the same time; doing paperwork and chewing compulsively at his own lip while lounging against the huge swivel chair. His white coat is off, and Castiel lets out a laugh at the vaguely inappropriate Christmas t-shirt he’s had on underneath. Sam raises his eyebrows and quirks one side of his mouth, but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. Castiel stretches his way up to sitting, and retrieves his writing stuff from his bag. The evening wears on in the comfortable sounds of keyboard clicking and pen scratching. 

They end up at Tonio’s under silent mutual consent. The college hole-in-the-wall is still somehow comfortable, dark, and smells of decades worth of tomato sauce and bread. Aside from his own couch, this is probably Castiel’s favorite place to be in the entire world. The food tastes like the smells, and he’s wrapped in meaty, saucy decadence. Tonight he has a meatball sub, and Sam is mowing his way through slightly overcooked pasta which is honestly just a vehicle for sauce. Castiel’s hand is sitting on the table, fingers worrying at his rings and making them clack. Sam places his hand on top of Castiel’s, one thumb gently rubbing circles around the back. Castiel lets him, but isn’t sure he should; he’s getting a little too invested, maybe, but Sam’s hand feels good. They talk about the kind of nothing that makes the tilting world right itself again; Sam’s large and overly solicitous family, Castiel’s stalled writing and his art classes (which are not stalled). When the check comes, he lets Sam pay, and when they stand around awkwardly afterwards outside in the wind, he eventually lets Sam drive him home. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas and New Year's was a fabulous nightmare. All that is behind us now.;)

Sam doesn’t proposition him. Castiel can see that he wants to, but he doesn’t. He’d turn Sam down, but he kind of wishes he would ask anyway. Everything would feel a little less weird; he’d feel a little less dirty maybe. It isn’t like he and Sam have been intimate very often outside their arrangement, but once and a while Sam will show up at Castiel’s house with a look that shoots right through his defenses, and Castiel lets his friend have him. It’s nice to be swept up in passion, as infrequent and temporary as it is. 

Sometimes Castiel wonders if, when Jessica finally moves on, Sam will try to take this someplace else or if he’ll just stop calling entirely. Castiel knows it’s an unfair thought because Sam has never been anything but good to him, but he’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop with Sam for years now. Relationships and hiring out his ass don’t really mix anyway. 

So, instead of kissing Sam, Castiel makes tea and awkward small talk, and eventually ushers the doctor out of the house with empty promises that he’ll take care of himself. He knows Sam isn't fooled by the lip pursed-scowl that comes his way, but he allows the door to close almost in his face anyway. Somehow he feels like Sam might be back in the morning. 

He sits in the dark and silent kitchen for a half an hour, watching headlights from the road outside catch the sides of the clean glasses in his drain and sparkle a little. Finally he gets the box marked “tea” from the back of a cabinet, in which he certainly does not keep tea. He wraps himself up in a blanket and smokes his joint on the floor in front of the couch with a Christmas DVD of a Yule log crackling on the TV in front of him. 

The drug has always played with his senses, turning simple touch into a heady experience. It also leaves him turned on and needy, and the two are a great combination when he has company. When he doesn’t, however, it becomes a long masturbation fest without end. He gets too lost in how good it is to finish, and it makes every other touch almost hysterically great, and there’s too much of a feedback loop. Sometime around midnight he trips, nude and happy, into the kitchen, and breaks out the flour and honey-cakes. 

This time he touches himself while he does the incantation, wrapping long delicate fingers around his cock and teasing. Time stretches a bit, and he begins to think perhaps he’d said it wrong. Castiel knows, though, that he hasn’t. He’s done this almost dead drunk before. James is sulking. He stretches his arms up above his head and considers another tactic. Begging, maybe.

“James,” he beseeches the quiet, “James, guardian and protector, I beg you. Please show up and take your offering. “ 

He closes his eyes when the sound of the breathless laugh behind him hits his ears. 

“Well. And what are you offering to me, exactly, sacred vessel?” James’ voice is thick and sweet and cloying.

Castiel slowly turns, letting James get a good long look at him, eventually catching his eyes. Then he slowly and deliberately kneels, keeping eye contact. The energy it takes to keep eye contact ripples through him and only makes him harder, if that’s possible. He tilts his head ever so slightly, just for good measure, so James can see his bared neck, and lightly runs the tips of his fingers up the length of his cock. 

James licks his lips, and glides through the kitchen, stopping within inches of Castiel. “Ohh, you are so cruel to me. Gods in Heavens, vessel, you’ve been through so much. I know you are filled with hate and anger. I have watched you think about ending your life. Every time I have offered you bliss you spurn me, yet now you stand here, offering yourself so sweetly. What do you want? What kind of bargain are you trying to make?” 

Castiel sighs, breaking the protection of the circle with one toe. He can feel the power backlash as he does, letting James’ aura wash over him like an ocean wave. He whispers, “Cleanse me, James. Make me feel good. Help me to remember pleasure for its own sake. “

Then he closes his eyes, breaking contact with James and giving the spirit free reign to do as he will. Every instinct he has screams at him, but he keeps his eyes closed and his neck bared, trembling and wanting. A quiet, desperate, “please...” tumbles from his lips.

He is swept up in a whirlwind of gleeful laughter as the spirit sweeps him from the floor and brings him to his bed. 

He is already heady and drugged, but the feeling that washes through him every time James touches him is nothing short of ecstatic joy. James is restrained power and feeling made flesh by Castiel’s sacrifice. His lips scald where they touch Castiel’s thighs, his stomach, his neck, his ass and finally, sweetly, his cock. His hands stroke, soothe, tempt and tease. They move together in an unbroken rhythm, above him James is haloed in golden light made of joy and music. Castiel orgasms almost as an afterthought, his whole body filled with fire, his mind shattered and reborn in James’ eyes. He feels a painful thrust and James is inside him, around him, they are the same, and he knows what it is like to be whole. He can feel the spirit’s ecstasy as his own, and so he can do the impossible and orgasm over and over, unable to stop or care. He knows he is babbling, that James eats his words, covering his lips with his own. He knows he is promising too much, giving James too much, but he can’t stop. When unconsciousness takes him, the last thing he sees are the strange captivating green of James' eyes, and he loses himself there.

He sleeps later than he ever thought he could and awakens feeling rested, with a smile plastered to his face. Stretching, his body feels sore, but he kind of likes it in the way he likes sore muscles after a workout. There’s a fantastic heady floral scent that makes him feel a little off kilter that turns out to come from a small red flower that sits on his pillow. Gradually everything from the night before that can actually be remembered clearly filters through to his consciousness, and he grimaces a little as he turns the flower over in his fingers. Finally he just shrugs and allows himself to smile again, and it’s a relief to his face, like holding the frown in was painful. He’s probably let himself in for something he didn’t mean to, but honestly, he feels amazing and could not care less about consequences at this point. When he stands he realizes he feels almost physically buoyant, as if he’s lost fifty pounds off his back. Also, he’s kind of disgusting and needs a shower. So he goes off to take one, almost skipping. He can think clearly for the first time in ages, and he’s going to make some plans as he washes last night off his thighs and stomach. And…the rest of him too. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for lateness, a plague came to my house.

The flower sits cheerfully in a tiny crystal vase on his kitchen window where it can soak in the sun that brightens the room in the afternoons. The vase was a gift from a client a year or so ago, on top of a hefty tip; cases rarely go so well and it always lifts his spirits when he looks at the pretty cut crystal. Castiel wears a perfume made of lilacs and a hint of roses, mostly because it complements the smell that comes with the scarf he wraps around his neck as he hastily leaves the house. It is a discarded scarf of Sam’s left here some time ago, but Sam’s smell permeates it still. The lilac and roses blends cozily in with the faint traces of Sam and it grounds him, protects him. He knows some day he’s going to have to focus on his burgeoning obsession, but today is not that day. Today, he has to see Fergus. He has to tell Fergus that he needs time. Time to heal, time to get his tests back. Castiel makes him a lot of money, and he isn’t sure just how badly he’ll take the news. It isn’t like this is the first time, but Fergus loves his money, and he knows that somehow he will manage to make Castiel pay.

The crosstown bus disgorges him a half hour later, and he is all too happy to leave the overwhelming cacophony of smells behind him. Worse, he thinks, than all the BO in the world is the horrible cheap concentrated smell of cleaner that clings to the fabric of the seats, and lingers (should you be as unfortunate as to touch something) on the hands. The stiff cold wind helps him overcome nausea, and he stands a while, taking great gulping breaths before re-wrapping his face in the bright red fabric, and trudging through the piles of crunchy leaves on the side of the road. 

Fergus owns a number of businesses, most of which are populated with a variety of colorful and shady clientele, but it is here at his coffee shop that he conducts everything that needs a personal and quiet touch. He’s named the place “Crowley’s”, and hired a small army of pierced, tattooed, and gothically made-up baristas and wait-folk. The walls have very carefully placed occult paraphernalia as decorations, and only people with a careful eye and mind full of obscure lore would notice the real warding among the gibberish that has been carved and scribbled on the walls. The music that plays is usually a medley of Peter Murphy and Siouxsie, Massive Attack and The Cure. It’s a goldmine; 40-something combat boot wearing nostalgics coming for pastries and free trade coffee to listen to music and type on their laptops, pretending they never left College. Mixed in are a new younger crowd who pile ten to a booth, ordering group food and laughing in low pretentious tones about the occult as if they know what they are talking about. 

Castiel loves it here. He kind of hates that he loves it here, but the booths are handmade wood that remind him of church pews and the tables are heavy and solid, worn into a patina by decades of use, the undersides carved with names of lovers and friends and good times gone by but never forgotten. The lighting is dim, and Castiel can hide in a booth to watch people and never get spoken to. As usual, entering forces an instant coffee craving, the smell beckoning him over to the counter where Jolene is already making him a cup of his favorite brew as he crosses the room. She indicates where Fergus is with a head gesture and a cocked eyebrow. Fergus is in a mood, her eyebrow says, do not fuck with him. He acknowledges it with a shaky smile and tips her generously. 

Fergus is holding court all the way in the back, where a couch sits with several wing backed chairs facing it in a semi-circle. This section is partly obscured from the rest of the establishment with a heavy red velvet curtain, and is usually populated with people reading worn paperbacks. Today, it has Fergus and the three slightly dumb looking muscle bound men that travel with him everyplace. Legs crossed, one arm slung across the back of the couch, Fergus taps his fingers and stares at Castiel as he walks the long stretch of the building. Castiel begins to grind his teeth. Fergus indicates a chair and Castiel takes a different one, which gets him a smirk, placing his mug on the coffee table between them; mostly to keep the fact that his hands are shaking to himself. 

“Fergus,“ he begins, his voice obnoxiously gravelly and off kilter. “Fergus, I have a problem.” 

The other man smiles. Castiel trails off, staring at him.

“Well? Am I to guess the trouble that brought you to my door today, Castiel, or will you enlighten me sometime _this month_? “ His tone is sharp, but that damn smile is lingering, and it’s fucking with him.

Castiel clears his throat. “The client. I... I don’t remember his name. Heyer? He.“ His teeth grind together. “Hurt. Me. I need time.”

Fergus’ expression goes carefully blank, and he angles his body forward suddenly, making Castiel flinch. “How much time, Castiel? Your health is important.“ his tone is polite, clipped, cold. 

Castiel blinks, and stammers, “I … don’t… I have tests. And I…” He cuts himself off as Fergus nods, waving a dismissive hand and relaxing back on his couch. He has that smile again, as if a shark were trying to be friendly.

“I think I have another way you can make money for me, my blue eyed boy. I know your non sexual clients are something you like to choose, but surely you’ll make an exception. Just this once…” his voice drops into a low purr, and Castiel gets a slow crawling sensation up his spine and over his skin. 

“I have this… friend. He owed me, you see, owed me something significant, and before he could pay me…well. He cut his own wrists, the wanker, and left me high and dry. My darling, you are going to make him talk to me. I won’t let a little thing like death get in the way of what’s mine.“ 

Fergus lets his eyes roam over Castiel’s body possessively, and he shudders helplessly, hands convulsively clenching around Sam’s scarf. “I will take what I am owed, and you will help me get it. Tell Larry Moe and Curly what you need. I’ll be back in an hour.” Fergus gets up and leaves, letting one hand settle firmly on Castiel’s shoulder for a moment as he goes by. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me forever to write, and then edit. I think it still needs work, but I just wanted it out of my head, so it's here.

After Fergus leaves, Castiel tries getting the three bodyguards to tell him something about the person he’s supposed to be contacting, but none of them will divulge anything at all. What makes it worse is that they actively seem to think he’s somewhat of a joke, smirking at him with crossed arms and speaking in a patronizing tone. So he stops trying to ask them anything and sends Larry and Moe (dammit, now Fergus has him doing it too) to the store with a list of ingredients. The stuff he’d made yesterday is much better, but there’s no way he’s _inviting_ these people to traipse through his home. Curly moves furniture around in the meantime to his specifications, and Castiel eats a heavy snack while sitting at the counter and chatting with Jolene, his feet hooked around the legs of the tall stool. Despite himself, Castiel begins to relax, even finding himself laughing at some of her corny jokes. Eventually the two meatheads return and Castiel follows them into the back to start the preparations. He carefully goes through the bags they've brought and places everything very carefully in groups; offerings for both spirits in one pile, things used to set the circle, and cleaning supplies. Curly has pushed all the furniture that could not be outright removed all the way to the edges of the room, leaving a nice wide space. Castiel sweeps this space carefully, and then begins to chant while he sprays it with a mixture of lemon juice and water. He kneels there and does not stop his chant while he collects the candles and places them precisely on the floor. He catches the sarcastic expression on the faces of his minders, hearing them muttering to each other as he lights each candle. Slowly and with careful precision, he raises his hand and extends his middle finger, leaving it out for them to feast their eyes on for a full minute. The coating is light, the floor dries quickly and he can open the flour and start the usual circle. He stays kneeling on the floor for this as he pours and chants, feeling power begin to collect in his joints, in his lungs, in the space behind his forehead. 

He can feel Fergus behind him as he finishes writing. Castiel shifts, spreading his knees slightly as he leans over to finish the circle by writing on the far side of it, and hunches his shoulders at the soft sound of appreciation from behind him. His chanting stumbles a little and he mentally curses himself for it. He can’t afford to do this all over again, Fergus will have little patience for it, and he really can’t afford to let the spirit do just whatever he wants. So he continues, finishing and sitting back on his heels, tilting his head back to look at Fergus as he looms above him. Fergus smiles at him slowly, eyes travelling down the long length of Castiel’s throat. When he speaks, it is in a predatory purr. 

“Sweetheart, not that I don’t appreciate the show, but let’s get a move on, yes? What are you pointing t…oh, this bowl? Here you go, pet.” Fergus crouches down next to him and watches as he places the bowl in the center. 

Castiel looks over at Fergus. “You need to stay in the center with me, and your men need to stay outside the curtain to make sure no one comes in. I’ve made a line around the outside of the room so he can’t leave, but if they breach the line, all bets are off and I can’t control him. I will summon James first so that can help too, but if this spirit hates you...” He shrugs, searching the other man’s eyes. Fergus laughs out loud. 

“Everyone hates me, that’s the point, my pet.” He leans in, the smell of his godawful aftershave making Castiel’s temples throb. “That’s why I own whores like you, so I don’t have to rely on _favors_. Get on with it, hmm? “ 

Castiel snaps his eyes away from Fergus and begins to summon James from where he is on the floor, his jaw tense, and his hands in fists on his thighs. He has his eyes shut, but he knows when the spirit arrives; Fergus lets out a soft gasp and there is an enormous pressure someplace inside of his head. His eyes fly open and he looks up to see James close, pressing against the circle. Testing. They lock eyes, and Castiel licks his lips nervously. James’ smile spreads slowly, causing a warm thrill to spread through his body. 

“On your knees already?” The spirit’s tone is light, almost teasing. The pressure inside Castiel’s head gets worse though, and James keeps pressing against the ward. Castiel clears his throat. 

“I called you to guide someone here, someone we need to speak to,” Castiel motions to Fergus, and rocks with the sudden cessation of pressure as James’ eyes snap to the other man. 

Fergus clears his throat. “Davis. Manny…Manuel. He sliced himself…” Fergus gestures from his inner elbow down to his wrist. “Rather than talk to me, the coward. Well, I want that conversation anyway.” 

Castiel swallows hard as one of Fergus’ hands rests proprietorially and quite firmly on his shoulder. His employer smiles. “My whore here and I…well. He owes me for all this time he requires to tend to his ‘situation’, and I have a use for him that will pay his debt to me. He’s going to get me that conversation, but he thought that it might be safer. For him. If you were here while we talked to Manny. Seeing as he’s probably not going to be thrilled to see me.” The smile is sharp and cold as he watches James. 

James raises an eyebrow and leans back with his arms crossed. His eyes have shifted from their sweet golden-green to a dark almost black that Castiel has never seen, and his shape starts to get a little fuzzy around the edges. That pressure in his head is back and it makes him want to throw up. The air is too thick to breathe in, and Fergus’ hand is like lead, weighing him down into the floor. Castiel tries to stand up, lurching suddenly as if to bolt for the door, but Fergus presses down with a grip that is hard like steel. Castiel sinks back down to his knees, gasping to breathe air that is suddenly too thick, helplessly watching the room warping around him as the spirit bends reality around him with his rage. 

Abruptly, James smiles at Fergus, loaded with promises. “Of course,” he says pleasantly. Castiel frantically sucks in air, reality snapping back into place like a rubber band. He finds that the hand pinning him in place is gone, and he scrambles for his supplies. His spirit is feigning disinterest, which is disturbing, but the impatient look on Fergus’ face is more than enough to make him fall over himself to hurry this along and not dwell on James. The sooner this is over, the sooner he can do…literally anything else. His laundry. Or his taxes. 

On Castiel’s list of supplies had been something personal from Manny, and Larry had produced a horrible relic of the man’s death, a shirt soaked in his blood, now dried into a crunchy mess. It smells like death, and the resonance on it makes Castiel feel emotions he’s long since beaten into submission. After moving James’ bowl, he takes it with two fingers and places it in the center of the circle. Cross legged, Castiel calls to him. 

“Manuel Davis, Manny Davis. Manny, come to me. Manuel Davis, come to me. I command and compel you to appear to me. Manny Davis, come to me. I command and compel you to speak to me.” Castiel repeats it over and over, the syllables falling in a pleasing rhythm from his tongue. James, sitting on the floor facing him, repeats it with him in rounds; starting just after he does so that the words are in an interesting rhythm. 

There is a wailing noise, like that of a trapped desperate animal, and there is a sharp blow to the ward, which pushes Castiel along the floor. Fergus grabs hold of him just in time to keep him from sliding through the back of the circle and breaking it. James snarls, seizing Manny’s ghost and holding him fast. 

Fergus smiles up at Manny. “Well, well, look who can’t run from me anymore. Manny, darling, where is my book? Hmm? You remember the one? About … so big? Old, dusty, kind of creepy? You were _supposed_ to steal the damned thing from that meddling junkyard man and bring it to me. So what happened, Manny? What happened in between here…and there… that made the book disappear, and attracted so much attention that I now have Alistair of all people sniffing up my ass? Hmm? 

“I totally get money being an issue, I do. And honestly, I almost expected you to change the terms of our arrangement. Instead, you kill yourself, and the damn book is where?” He growls, “NOT HERE, that’s where! So, now, Manny, you will tell me where it is, or I swear I will kill your slut of a girlfriend and use her bones to decorate my bloody game room!” He all but screams the last, spit flying, and his face turning a bright red. 

Manny screams in incoherent rage, trying to fight James to get through to Fergus, or perhaps Castiel. The scuffle is loud, and draws all of Fergus’ attention as they struggle through the room, knocking the pictures off the walls and making the floor vibrate with unfocused angry energy. Honestly, this is half the reason he’s asked James to be here; when he doesn’t have to worry about his safety, he can have time to observe. 

Manny was once a handsome man, tall and proud and virile. Castiel can see the pure essence of who he was beneath everything, which is the really odd… huh. Suddenly he can see what he’s been looking for, and it’s not at all good. Manny’s been changed, twisted and boosted by something dark and powerful and crafty. He’s going to kill James, which is no small feat, and then he’s going to break the ward, and kill the rest of them. Castiel moves suddenly and quickly, hoping to get this done before Fergus can figure out what he’s doing, because he’ll try to stop him. He fumbles a bit with the things inside the circle, dumping James’ offerings out of the bowl and stuffing Manny’s shirt into it with a quick muttered apology. Desperately, he casts around for the matches he’d used to light the candles, and his stomach sinks at the sight of them outside the circle, pushed there by Manny flinging himself at the ward. He can feel James’ dumbfounded surprise as Manny gets the upper hand, and closes his eyes. If Manny overpowers James, it’s over for everyone, he’ll get out of the circle warding the rest of the coffee house. He’ll get into the city itself. 

“Okay, “ he whispers, and dives outside the circle. 

The rest of it is so fast he can barely separate the images into a coherent story line. He has the matches, and then Manny is on him, and it hurts, it hurts down to his soul. James is pulling him free, so Castiel can scramble back towards the bowl, breaking the circle entirely in his haste. He fucks with the matches, which are just not working, and he can’t figure out why because the room is spinning. He can feel James being torn apart, and so he just...dismisses him, chanting the words in record time even as he feels resistance, he knows James is still trying to defend him, and he knows James is so very angry at him. Someone takes the matches, and then everything is on fire, and Castiel knows what he needs to say. Manny is on fire. Manny is screaming, and then it is quiet. So amazingly peacefully, quiet. 

He and Fergus lie on the floor, side by side. 

“So, you’re going to explain that, right?” Fergus croaks. One of his hands is like a vise around Castiel’s arm, shaking like a leaf. 

“He wasn't, “Castiel croaks, clears his throat, and then tries again. “He wasn't Manuel any more. Something had changed him. I thought at first that it was the book, and maybe that’s partly true. “ He shifts so he’s on his side, looking down into Fergus’ face. 

“The book made him kill himself. From the moment he held it, it was whispering to the darkest parts of Manny’s soul, and he just…” Castiel lifts one shoulder, “He wasn’t prepared. He didn't have the tools to keep himself safe. I think someone took the book after that, and changed Manny so that when we went looking, he’d destroy us, and then he’d get out and create so much havoc that no one would go looking for the book until a lot of time had gone by.” 

Fergus closes his eyes, and lets out a long ragged breath. “Well, that’s fucked, isn't it.” He reaches up and pats Castiel’s cheek with his other hand. 

Castiel laughs a little hysterically, “Yes, yes it is. Whoever did this, they are not just fucking around. They know what they are doing, and they are…” he shivers and sits up, reclaiming his arm from Fergus who lets his fingers trail down to Castiel’s elbow before letting go. 

Eventually, Fergus lets Castiel go home. He even makes Moe drive him home, saying it was ludicrous to have to ride a bus after that. Castiel couldn't agree more. 

He couldn't wait to get home and sleep for about a year. After eating a burger. And maybe some ice cream. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
> Mentions mental institutions and treatment against the patient's will.  
> Mentions of past attempted suicide.

Castiel regards the trunk of the battered yellow car, and begins to attempt a complicated Tetris-like maneuver with the pile of foam-wrapped pvc weapons, duffel bags filled with tunics and several well-worn boots covered with dried mud and a few stray leaves left from several seasons past. The cheerful voice of his best friend pipes up behind him. 

“For crying out loud, Castiel, the bags can fit in the back seat. You will deal with the smell for like, five minutes of your time. “ She pops her head around to peer at him, and then closes the trunk, making him hop back or get clipped by it. He grumbles something under his breath.

She laughs, already halfway around the car. Castiel finds that she’s helpfully left the three bags of Chinese food there on the pavement for him to place into the back seat. Muttering mutinously, he carefully places them all on the floor behind the driver’s seat. While buckling his belt, he looks up at her and scowls. 

“Charlie,” he begins, intending something that was surely scathing, but she interrupts him as she backs out of her parking spot. 

“So, tell me more about this book. If Crowley wants it, it has to be something truly fucked up to begin with, and all this business with the ghost…not many people can pull that off. “ She weaves in and out of traffic as if the other cars don’t really exist, causing him to check to make sure his belt is on. He wrinkles his nose in a half scowl.

“Don’t call him that. His name is Fergus. Calling him that just legitimizes his pretentiousness.“ Castiel shifts and opens the window a little. Chinese food in an apartment is tasty and smells okay. In a car, it assaults his senses and leaves him feeling slightly raw. 

Charlie snorts. “So, Sam is helping us with research again? Kind of weird how he knows all about this stuff.” She hammers her hand on the horn in quick little bursts of anger as she barely avoids a serious pile up. 

Castiel again makes sure his seat belt is tight across his hips. “Sam is very interested in the occult, Charlie. You know yourself how good he is at research. I don’t understand your misgivings about him. “ 

Charlie skids to a halt, just missing the entrance to the private road that leads to Sam’s home, backs up, and then begins to drive down it, passing through the massive iron gates that have been left open. She gestures at them as they pass by. “Look, Castiel, I know the guy is sweet and hotter than can be believed and all, “ She ignores Castiel’s snort, “But something about him is off. For one thing, this mansion in the ass crack of town, _outside_ the suburbs, with this giant iron gate? I just expect a basement filled with dead girlfriends or something. He’s secretive. Like, beyond privacy secretive.” 

Castiel grinds his teeth but lets it pass; it’s an old argument that they have every time Sam’s name comes up, and he can’t win it. He knows Charlie has been investigating Sam, but he steadfastly refuses to hear anything she’s discovered. Sam has been good for him. Good to him. 

Finally the little yellow car bounces its way up to the restored purple Victorian surrounded by carefully tended gardens; in the front of the house are a meticulously planned riot of flowers, and around the back is a vast organized herb garden and a greenhouse. A backyard patio overlooks it, Castiel knows, complete with a very nice grill and outdoor bar. Castiel has been to many parties here, he’s come over sometimes just to be with Sam, and has awoken in the house many mornings after Jessica has had her way with his body. Sam is a gracious host and hates to be alone. The fact that he has hinted to Castiel that he should take his pick of the bedrooms and just not leave is something he keeps from Charlie at all costs. Somehow he knows she would not appreciate it the way he does.

Castiel tumbles out of the car as fast as he can while taking deep restorative breaths of fresh air, then rescuing the food and allowing Charlie to tote the bag with the research. Together they climb up to the massive porch. Castiel opens the door without knocking, calling in for Sam as he goes and blithely ignoring Charlie’s frown. He hears an answering call from within Sam’s study. 

The study is a large room that smells pleasantly like dust and old dry paper. The walls are covered in bookshelves that go from the floor to nearly the ceiling, and the books are almost all uniformly old and very well looked after, despite the untidy nature of this room. There are three couches that sit in the middle facing each other with a worn oriental rug beneath them, and a coffee table smack in the center. The coffee table was handmade by someone out of a long slice of tree, polished and shaped and beautiful. It is one of Castiel’s favorite things in the world, and he especially loves to gaze at it while he is high. He imagines he can see the secrets of the universe buried in the deep browns and golds of the wood. He also knows it is nigh indestructible, having fallen on it, slammed hot coffee cups on it, and piled at least a hundred pounds of books on it before. He places the Chinese food on it now, pushing aside a pile of papers. Sam, who is sitting on the floor with a book balanced on his knee, hastily moves them so they stay organized.

Charlie and Sam chatter together about research as Castiel leaves to use the downstairs bathroom with a fond smirk on his face; despite Charlie’s misgivings, she and Sam get along like two peas in a pod. They bond over hard to find arcana and talk in strange techno-speak about whatever it is they find online. Castiel can barely use his phone, much less understand how the two of them can do so much research using the internet. 

The downstairs bathroom is tiny and uses the space under the stairs well. It houses a rickety toilet and a gorgeous sink that Sam’s saved from a demolished Victorian in the suburbs. The window is custom stained glass with an Aquarian Star in the middle of it; Sam uses this symbol in a lot of his decoration. The walls are covered in peeling flowery wallpaper. Castiel uses this opportunity to take some more Vicodin. He knows he doesn’t need it, and that he should save it, but he just…can’t cope lately, and it helps to blur the edges a little. He crushes it between his teeth, valiantly ignoring the horrible taste. He pauses as the stairs above him creak, but the footsteps are off; halting and slow, and they are coming down, not going up. Not Sam then. He scoops some water into his mouth to wash out the taste of the pill, and opens the door, hoping to catch sight of whoever it is before they leave the house. He tells himself that he isn’t jealous, not really. He just likes Sam, and he wants to know who else gets to invade his friend’s carefully guarded privacy. As he opens the door, he realizes that whoever it is isn’t leaving the house, they’re standing in front of the door to the bathroom. 

Everything moves in slow motion for a moment, and he only realizes that he’s actually yelled in surprise because he vaguely registers Sam thundering down the hallway. James. James is standing there with his hands up, backing away from him. He’s not contained in a circle, and so he could do anything, to Sam, to Charlie…he tries to banish him, but it isn’t working. It should work, even without all the accoutrements, even if it just takes the energy right out of Castiel directly. James grabs him suddenly, and wait, he’s solid, he’s _touching Castiel without permission_ , it’s James, solid and _real_ , and he can’t banish him. He starts hyperventilating, and then Sam’s got him, hustling him down the hall into the study, sitting him on the couch. He can’t stop his heart, it’s so loud and he can’t _breathe_. Everything is too bright, the floor is lurching under him. He registers Charlie fussing over him only vaguely, but he can’t concentrate. He can’t figure out how James has done it, his mind keep skittering over the possibilities, like trying to run over wet ice.

Sam’s closed the doors to the study, the kind that slide right into the walls. He can hear Sam and James arguing, although James’ voice is different; it’s this amazing husky growl that he’s never heard from the spirit before. 

“That was fucking _Sumerian_ , Sam. I know a spell when I hear one. Is that a witch? Did you bring a witch home, Sammy?! What the hell was he trying to do to me?”

Sam’s voice is low and placating, and Castiel can hear an edge of humor in it that seems somehow out of place. “No, he is not a witch. He’s the medium I’ve been telling you about. Remember that book I asked Bobby about? He was in the middle of that debacle with Crowley and the fucking modified ghost thing. He risked himself to save people, he is okay. Believe me. I’ve done my homework, dammit.” 

Their voices get low enough so that he can’t specific words, but he gets the impression of a very intense argument happening just feet from the closed door. The oddity of the argument cuts through Castiel’s panic, and he begins to be able to think again. A few minutes pass by, and the conversation on the other side of the door only gets more heated, until finally Castiel gets up. Brushing off Charlie, he slides one of the doors open. He means it to be dramatic, but the door sticks, and so he struggles with it a moment before it actually slides back into the wall. When he’s done, both men are staring at him. He assesses “James” for a long moment, really using his eyes this time. 

He certainly _looks_ like James. Enough so that the comparison is eerily apt, until he starts to see things that make his mistake seem foolish. James is a spirit, so his body is perfect and he never has extraneous movement. This man has pores and a scent; from here he mostly smells like leather and stale sweat. His left arm is in a cast and supported by a sling, he has a cane in the other hand to support what seems like a weak leg. His face is marred by bruises and his forehead has been stitched. His eyes are the most beautiful green Castiel has ever seen in a person, but they aren’t lit from behind with power, and certainly aren’t morphing to gold as he changes mood. This is a human man, breathing, moving, warm and alive. 

Castiel takes in a deep breath, and says quietly, “I apologize. You look…disarmingly like a spirit with whom I am familiar, and I was surprised to see him without wards to protect me. “ he holds his hand out to the man, “I am Castiel, a friend of Sam’s.”

The man blinks, and opens his mouth, but seems unable to respond to this. Sam rescues him, “This is Dean. He’s my brother. He’s been injured and he’s staying here for a while.”

Dean shakes his head as if to clear it. “Yeah, good to meet you, man. Uh, sorry to have startled you. “ Belatedly, he offers his hand to Castiel. His grip is solid and warm, and Castiel can’t help the smile that spreads over his face. Dean’s lips curve slightly in response, and they just stand like that for a while, holding each other’s gaze. 

“Excuse me,” Charlie says from the doors, breaking the spell. She crosses her arms, looking pissed. Castiel looks up at her.

“What the holy fuck is going on,“ She demands. 

Castiel gestures to the study.

Even with three couches, the space in the study is a little cramped. Charlie pulls the ottoman from the living room in, and is sits on it with her legs crossed, picking through shrimp lo mein and chewing enthusiastically. The three men have white boxes, but none of them are really eating; the boxes and the chopsticks seem to be there to occupy their hands. Castiel gathers his thoughts carefully, and begins to speak, his voice soft and hesitant.

“For as long as I’ve been self-aware, I’ve been able to hear spirits. When I was very small, everyone assumed I had imaginary friends, but eventually the things I would repeat from the spirits around me got me into trouble. They were very often disturbing, and from time to time slightly prophetic. It made the adults uncomfortable, and I did not learn fast enough that I should keep my mouth shut. I spent most of my teen years locked in an asylum, and because none of the drugs they gave me would stop the voices, they kept trying a succession of them on me. Eventually they resorted to electroconvulsive therapy, and I had a pretty...dramatic…seizure. 

“I found then, that I could see the spirits as well as hear them, and that if they tried hard enough, they could touch me easier than they could touch anyone else. I already did not want to be there, but now…well. The kinds of spirits that haunt an asylum aren’t the kinds of spirits you want to talk to without protection, and I had none. I had spent most of my life being told that I was a liar, or worse, insane, and I had tried to ignore it. I’d never done research. I’d never believed in myself enough to think I was anything but insane, but now…now I could not do anything but jump into this feet first. “ 

Castiel unbuttons his shirt, and Sam looks away, swallowing hard. He’s heard it, all of it, and he’s seen it. Dean’s sharp intake of breath breaks the tense silence. Charlie stabs her chopsticks into the box viciously, her hand shaking with anger

“The spirits started to hurt me, as you can see. There was so much more than this; these are just the wounds that scarred. They were angry, vengeful, and full of pain. I got the impression that they were trapped there, and that many of them were quite old. “ Castiel slings his shirt back on, but doesn’t button it. “The point here, is that I knew I wasn’t insane suddenly. It was like being thrown into the deep end of an icy pool. I had no idea what to do, and eventually I just tried to kill myself to make it stop. The doctors, though, they continued not to know I wasn’t insane, and things got so much worse for me when they thought I was actively trying to wound or kill myself. I stopped being able to see anyone but my caretakers, and I was often strapped to a bed, unable to move. One night, I begged God to kill me, since I could not do it myself. I promised him anything, if he would end me or help me escape. I just wanted out.

“James came to me that night. He was mostly formless then, but I could see and understand him, which delighted him. He told me that he could protect me from the other spirits and he could teach me, if I would worship him…if I would give him sacrifices and remember him. So I bound myself to him, and I have not looked back. I escaped the facility with his help, and he was as good as his word. I did find a mortal teacher, though, once I was out of the country. James had a habit of just not telling me things he did not want me to know. For example, I learned how to banish him.“ Castiel shrugs, and pokes viciously at his lo mein. 

“Anyway, eventually James started to gain a shape. He had already had a few before he started to look like you. He’d take the forms from my head, I think, trying to gain a shape that I could handle without freaking out. I could talk to him as it was, but being formless, he couldn’t touch anything, and taking a form I identified with would give him more power as far as I was concerned.“ Castiel rubs his temples and puts down his box of food. He turns his face to the inside of his wrist and inhales deeply, grounding himself in lemongrass. “That’s when I started to call him James instead of…well, anyway. He looked like a cross between James Dean and Kirk.” Dean colors suddenly and looks awkward. The look Sam gives him is nothing short of poisonous.

Everyone is silent for a few minutes, and then Dean asks carefully, “Sacrifices?” 

Sam facepalms, muttering into his hand, “ _ **Dean!**_ ” 

Dean grinds out, “What! Sammy, c’mon. Sacrifices? You mean, you’ve never asked?”

Castiel interrupts them with a clipped, “Nothing that would upset you, I think. Mostly, he likes sweets. Special cakes made with honey, alcohol, and certain flowers. He sometimes likes more … carnal… sacrifices, but I haven’t done that often.” 

Charlie asks around a mouthful of shrimp, “Why this form, though. You’ve never met Dean before?” 

Castiel shrugs, shifting onto the couch so he can wrap his arms around his knees. He rests his chin there and regards Sam, who locks gazes with him. They rest there in each other’s sight for a long moment, communicating without words.

Eventually Sam ventures, “Maybe...” He can’t seem to finish the thought, but Castiel’s already nodding with a sad look around his eyes. They both subside into silence, which eventually seems to infuriate Dean. 

“Dude,” he pokes Sam in the arm. “What.”

Sam growls at his brother, “Jessica, asshole. Your face leaked in from her memories. “ He gets up then in a sudden rush of movement, stalking out of the room, his shoulders held stiffly. 

Dean starts to get up, and then thinks better of it. He looks over at Castiel wildly, “But I didn’t… what does that even mean?” 

Charlie’s phone makes an obnoxious noise, and she fiddles with it while Castiel very obviously tries to avoid the question. She sighs after a bout of furious texting. 

“This is where I get off the crazy train, guys. Castiel, it’s been real, but I gotta split. I have to deal with this piece of bullshit, but I’ll be back later for research, ok?” She leans over and kisses his cheek. “Tell Sam that if he kills you and buries you in the basement I totally know it’s him. “ Castiel nods absently, ignoring the dark look Dean gives her. She leaves with her box of shrimp, giving an audible sound of relief as she hits the air outside. 

Castiel and Dean sit awkwardly for a few minutes until Castiel breaks the tension with a few mumbled words, “Jessica thought you were safe. She trusted you with Sam. Enough that your face and the emotions that went with it leaked into my subconscious when I channeled her. “ He clears his throat, “Also, along the same lines, she may have had unresolved sexual feelings for you as well. I think that is what Sam is currently sulking about in the back garden. You should probably go….” He waves his hand around ineffectually. 

Dean processes this slowly, his cheeks and the back of his neck slowly growing redder as he begins to understand everything Castiel has been saying. He clears his throat, and nods, “Um, I’ll go see if Sammy… “ he gets up and nearly trips over himself to get out the door. 

Dean pauses in the doorway, giving him an assessing glance before nodding once and leaving him alone. 

Castiel sighs and starts pulling books over onto his couch. He starts to research. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies. I outed myself as a writer to a dear friend, and I just got amazingly shy. On top of that is some other really heavy obligations, and I just signed up for the DCBB, so I'm dumb. Here is a half an update that I've had around for a while, hoping to add to, but my brain is stalling. Here is this piece though, and I'll keep working. 
> 
> THANK you for staying with me here.

Castiel keeps his eyes trained on the book on the table in front of him and the tatty spiral notebook resting partially on top of it. He absolutely does not look up, or in any way indicate that he can hear the running argument the brothers are having with each next to the grill. Their voices carry even though Sam is hissing things at Dean between clenched teeth, and Dean is being quite urgent at Sam in low rapid fire whispers. As he pretends to read, he considers the pros and cons of simply retiring to a bed upstairs. As far as he can see, the biggest con so far is that he would miss eating whatever they were cooking over there that was releasing the most heavenly smell. The sun was still warm, and he would hate to waste the last of the warm fall days hiding in a bedroom. He closes his eyes and sniffs the air. 

“Garlic,” he murmurs to himself, “Coriander, onion powder, black pepper. Paprika.” He a smile begins creeping onto his lips, and he sinks back into the chair, imagining tasting it. Steaks cook quickly. He could wait, and live in this aroma. Something about the quality of the air seems off suddenly, and he cracks open an eye to find the Winchesters staring at him. 

“Cas, “ Sam laughs, “Your nose never fails to amaze me.” 

Castiel shrugs with a cocky smile. “What can I say, Sam, I’m gifted.” He winks at Sam, and Dean turns away from them with a soft huffing noise, lifting his beer to his lips and looking out at the garden behind the house. He opens his mouth, intent on outright asking Dean what the hell his problem is, when his phone rings. Shoving his chair back, he murmurs instead, “Work.”

Though he tries to leave the back porch smoothly, Castiel still catches the conflicted look on Sam’s face. He slips into the downstairs bathroom and locks the door. 

“Crowley,” he begins, “I thought you agreed..” Crowley interrupts him, his tone annoyed and clipped.

“I thought you should know… _he_ tried to book you again. When I told him you were…not receiving visitors, he became quite insistent. So, keep your lovely head down until we can persuade him that you are off limits. This fellow does not play around. “ There’s a long silence from both men, and Castiel dimly suspects he is hyperventilating. 

“Why are you…” He stumbles over his words, and finally gives up, rubbing his hand through his hair compulsively. 

“Well, “Crowley draws the word out, his growl thick and honeyed, “Dear Heart, no one destroys my property, and they certainly do not come into _my_ town and start murdering people and taking my toys. Be a good whore, and sit this one out, yeah?” Crowley hangs up, but it takes Castiel a few seconds to register that. The silence in the room rings in his ears. 

Castiel spends a few minutes trying to get himself together. He fills the sink, takes off his shirt and plunges his head into the ice cold water. Gasping for air and shivering, he reaches for the towel and closes his hand over someone else’s as they pass him the white terrycloth. He starts upright, and sees Dean in the mirror, leaning against the open doorjamb to the bathroom. They lock gazes, and all time crawls to a standstill, water still dripping off his face and down his chest. 

Dean takes the towel and starts to carefully dry Castiel’s hair. “You seem upset. “ Dean’s voice is gentle, and Castiel can feel his heart breaking itself against his ribcage.

Castiel bats the towel away and shrugs back into his t-shirt which soaks it instantly, making the shivering worse. 

“No, “ he finally answers. “No, I’m fine. Except… do you usually open the door when someone’s in the bathroom?” he turns to face Dean, moving close into his space, quirking an eyebrow. His eyes roam over Dean’s mouth, and when they return to his green gaze, Castiel deliberately licks his lips very slowly. 

Dean flinches, clenching his jaw and leaning back just a little to make a space. Castiel moves forward, keeping himself impossibly close to Dean, but not quite touching. He leans his head forward so his lips are inches from Dean’s ear, and whispers, “I totally get the bathroom fetish. It’s such a small space, so public, anyone could accidentally walk in. “ 

Dean backs up a step, only to slam himself into the doorjamb, and he scrambles a little before getting out of the room. “You’re a dick. You were crying. I was worried, sue me.”

Castiel blinks and watches Dean stalk off. Had he been crying? He absently touches his face. 

  


Dinner is somewhat stilted. Dean is glaring into his beer, and Castiel is staring tiredly into space. Sam tries really hard to make conversation, but eventually he gives up with a shrug, looking between them with a perplexed air. Charlie calling Castiel breaks up the uncomfortable quiet. Castiel puts her on speakerphone. 

“So get this, “ she starts, “Have you ever heard of the Malleus Maleficarum?” 

Sam makes a face, “Yeah, but Charlie, it’s just a how-to book, really. A list of how to recognize and kill witches. “ 

“Yeah!” Charlie’s tinny voice radiates excitement, “Yes! But it’s only one book. It turns out that there was *a series* of them, and they were all very informative. This guy, Heinrich Kramer, he started doing a lot of research on witches and witchcraft in general. I mean, the church condemned him, but he was obsessed. He spent a lot of time on the subject. 

“He _interviewed_ them, guys. Tortured some, but…others, he just got them talking. He collected spells. Hundreds of spells. Ingredient lists. Notes. It’s like a…cookbook. A big, giant honking ultimate spellbook. I think that’s what our anonymous dude is after.” 

Castiel gapes, and Dean speaks up. “Charlie, where are you?” 

Charlie laughs, “I think I know where a clue is. I’ll call you in an hour. If I’m right, this is huge.” 

Dean barks into the phone, “No! Charlie, do not go alone! Charlie!” he looks at the phone, and swears. “She’s hung up. Sam..” The tone in his voice is galvanizing, and Sam gets up with purpose. 

“Cas, “ Sam orders, “Stay here. Do not. Leave. If Charlie calls, let us know, but _stay here_.” He and Dean hustle back into the house. 

They are still arguing about Dean staying behind because of his injury when they pile into Dean’s huge black car, throwing duffel bags into the trunk. Sam waves grimly to Castiel as he drives off, and then he is alone in the quiet. 


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel stacks the dishes, and puts the remainder of the food into Tupperware. He sits on the floor in the study with every book that is even a little relevant spread around him, and gorges on information. He lies on the floor with one arm over his eyes, absorbing it and trying to put it into neat categories. Finally, he spends a few hours on the phone with every medium, small time occult researcher and Wiccan he knows, until he thinks to call Rufus Turner. Sam had introduced him to the grumpy bastard, and Castiel has ended up contacting him over the years whenever he needs something he can’t find or get on his own. He’s pretty sure that Sam has no idea just how much this happens, and he thinks it is probably wise that he keep it to himself. 

_“Rufus,”_ he says, his voice all sunny false cheer.

**_”Don’t bother trying to butter me up, boy. Just cut to the end where you ask me for something. “_ **

_“Fine,”_ This time the smile that creeps over his face is real. He can’t seem to help it when he talks to Rufus. He decides against leading into the subject, and starts out bold, _”I’m on the trail of the Malus Maleficarium. Not the one that everyone knows about, the last one, the book of interviews.”_

The sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line is just about as good as a spit-take from anyone else. Good. 

_”I see you know what I’m talking about. Its existence was a mystery to me, which I would have been happy to keep that way, but now I’m caught up in the search for it, and I need some direction. What can you tell me?”_

Rufus’ tone is gruff, a little condescending, and urgent, _ **”Nothing. Leave it alone. Close your windows and lock your doors, stay away from this.”**_ . 

Castiel clicks his tongue against his teeth, waiting. Finally, Rufus starts grumbling, and Castiel hears the creak of his chair as he sits in it hard. 

_**”You got one hell of a death wish, Castiel. Fine, but this isn’t free. I need you to talk to your spirit guide for me, and I need it first. Come over here, we’ll do it now. But listen to me, boy, you did not get this information from me. I want to stay as far away from this as possible, you understand?”**_

_”Sam and Dean told me to stay here, though,_ “ Castiel begins, only to be interrupted by Rufus, a distinct edge grating through his voice. 

_**”Listen, you want this information, you come and get it. If**_ *Sam and Dean Winchester* _**tell you to stay put, well. I guess you should listen to ‘em. Not like they’ve ever made a mistake. I’ll be here, you decide you want this enough."**_ The call cuts off, and Castiel rubs his hand over his face. 

Castiel ransacks Sam’s kitchen. He finds the things he will need to talk to James while he’s at Rufus’ house; expecting that these things will be there is folly, and he really does not need James to saunter out of the circle right now. He finds about a hundred re-usable shopping bags in the kitchen, and packs two of them with a fond smile on his face. They have happy pictures drawn by kindergartners on them of people hugging the earth, and it’s so aggressively Sam that it fills him with warmth. 

After that, he sits and thinks for a few minutes. He knows that time is ticking and Rufus will be annoyed and uncooperative if he’s too late, but he has to spend time on this or it will be botched. Sam will not forgive him if he gets taken by this Heyer guy before they can figure out what the hell is going on. He can summon spirits, chances are that he can do simple tracking spells as well, and he has no idea if he has taken Castiel’s hair or anything else that Heyer can use to track him, so. He needs to take precautions. 

Castiel spreads one of Sam’s fancy cloth napkins out on the kitchen table, and writes sigils on the inside of it with a sharpie (and a silent apology to Sam). He collects Sam and Dean's forks from the stack of dishes. They go in the center of the sharpie spell work. Carefully, he upends the peppershaker onto them, and carefully places leaves from the front yard on top of that. He carefully wraps this all up, and, after some careful investigation of Sam’s room, ties it closed with kitchen twine wrapped in Sam’s hair. 

Saying a quiet word over the contents, he slips it into his pocket. It is exactly like walking around with a pocket filled with forks, but it will do. Anyone trying to find him magically will find Sam or Dean instead, and trying to find a location will only ever get Sam’s house. He’s pretty sure Sam and Dean will forgive him for sending an angry magic wielding john after them. Eventually. He’s also sure that Sam would rather face Heyer than have Castiel do it. 

He folds a piece of paper into a tent and scrawls, _Went to Rufus’ house. He has information. Will be careful. –Castiel_. It goes on top of the stack of books currently formed into an unstable tower on the coffee table. 

It’s then that he realizes he has no way to get to Rufus’ house. He runs over options in his head, and sighs. He will either have to call a taxi, and with his luck running the way it has, he knows who will answer the call, or walk miles until he gets to a bus stop. Feeling the crunch of time, he finally makes the call with a deep sense of misgiving. He goes to wait, moving his bags down to the front gate. 

Icarus Taxi Services is a small company, so even though someone else answers the phone, it’s Balthazar that shows up in the cab. He pulls up, arm across the back of the seat, somehow lounging and driving at the same time. The car idles, and he pulls his shades down to look at Castiel over the top of them. 

“Darling,” he says with a smirk, “Shouldn’t you have a proper coat in this weather? You’ll get pneumonia. It wasn’t that pretty last time, I should think a repeat performance would not make it to the top of your list. “ 

Castiel rolls his eyes, and opens the back door, piling in after his bags with some awkwardness. When he finally stows them and gets the door closed, he asks with a weary sigh, “Bal, please just take me someplace without the commentary?” 

Balthazar’s smile is strained and bitter, “Alright, have it your way.” He turns the car around and starts driving. 

Castiel sinks back into the seat with a soft sigh. Bal’s irritating presence aside, he loves being in his cab. Balthazar and his brother had started the business a few years ago, and although there was increasing demand for them, they’d purposefully kept it small. Each driver is assigned the same car and given autonomy over it; so someone like Gabriel could decorate the inside of his cab with fringe and tiny disco balls, or their newest employee Annaleise could glue smurfs over the entirety of the outside of hers. They specialized in rescues as well, picking up drunk college students or people stranded with car trouble. Once, Benny had even helped a woman fleeing her abusive husband, showing up just in time with a car and a baseball bat. 

Castiel had been part of the success of this in the beginning, sending Bal to idle his car at address after address that turned out to be exactly the right place at the right time to both help someone and gain a fare. They gathered enough local urban legends about them that even though Castiel was no longer sharing Bal’s bed, people would call the Icarus Taxi Services first. 

He had always loved Bal’s cab. He had spent a lot of time and money covering the seats in old soft leather, and he kept the cab meticulously clean using natural products. He also listened to mellow guitar music almost constantly, and it all added up to a pleasant, restful place. Castiel usually fell asleep whenever he rode in it, and now is no exception. 

He wakes slowly to Balthazar’s touch on his shoulder, realizing that the other man is sitting in the back seat with him. It seems like the most natural thing in the world just to lean against him and nuzzle at his chest. 

“Bal,” he murmurs. “Don’t. Nothing is going to change. I’m too valuable to my employer, I can’t just quit.” Castiel sighs when he feels fingers rifling through his hair. He never could resist torturing himself. 

“Cassie,” Balthazar’s lips are against the crown of Castiel’s head as he talks. “Are you sure about this place? I can think of a few abandoned buildings that seem more welcoming.” 

Castiel laughs and sits up. “Yes, I’m sure. Rufus is… a character, but he’s harmless.” He looks out the window at Rufus’ yard, filled with giant overgrown weeds, most of them thistles. Many of them grow in and around an abandoned car, and discarded beer bottles catch the sunlight here and there through the mess. Security cameras mounted on both on the gate and on the posts of the dilapidated porch swivel to cover the yard. Castiel supposes he can see Bal’s point. 

Castiel pats Balthazar’s chest awkwardly. “Bal, I have to go. Please move.” 

Balthazar shakes his head. “I’m going to stay outside and wait, alright? I don’t know this character, and you aren’t exactly the most careful of men, Cassie.” He kisses Castiel on the lips quickly before Cas can stop him, and opens the door to let them both out into the frigid air. 

Gathering his bags together, Castiel pauses, a slow creeping feeling running along his skin. He digs a pen out of his bag and writes a string of numbers on Bal’s hand. “If something happens, call this guy. He’ll be grumpy, but he wants to know.” 

Balthazar wrinkles his nose at it, but agrees with a nod and one last hug. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did NOT write 50k in Nanowrimo, but I didn't expect to. What I DID do, is write enough to get me back into the groove, and figure out some of the rest of the timeline in this plot. I have changed the tags, keep it all in mind, I don't do warnings.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, as usual.

“Who the fuck are you,” Rufus snaps at the trio of thugs straight from central casting. The front door swings uselessly on its remaining hinge, and the squeaking sounds weirdly ominous. Castiel shrinks back into the living room, feeling James like a live wire behind him. The men don’t answer Rufus except to hit him very hard, and then they are coming for Castiel, stepping over the old man’s crumpled form as if he was nothing more than garbage on the floor. Castiel runs, scuffing the edge of the summoning circle with a heel in his haste, smiling grimly at the screams behind him as he runs for his life out what is left of the front door. 

Castiel thanks Balthazar in his head for being a meddling bastard, because he is still _here_. He will make everything up to him, he swears, later, safe in Bal’s stupid loft apartment. The cab’s engine is running, sandwiched between the fence and a long black limo. 

“Bal!!” he yells as he runs, “Start the car, go! GO!” He wrenches the back of the cab open and slides in, watching as two of his pursuers stumble out of Rufus’ house, then grinning savagely as one gets grabbed and pulled back in by his leg. 

The cab remains motionless. Castiel turns around, his stomach dropping into the floor, and sees Balthazar’s body slumped over the steering wheel. His eyes stare back at Castiel, empty and lifeless, a hole in the middle of his forehead oozing blood. There is blood covering the side window, blood on the beautiful leather seats. He stares at it, thinking that he should clean that because Balthazar will hate that, it will ruin the leather and leave a stain. Absently, he registers running and shouting behind him, but he reaches out and takes Bal’s hand until he gets wrenched away, pulling a little until the corpse slides off the steering wheel to lie on the front seat. 

Dragged bodily from the cab, Castiel can see Balthazar standing next to it, watching him mournfully and flickering just a bit. He’s angry, and Castiel could use the help, but he doesn’t know what the man in the car can do to a fledgling spirit, so he gains eye contact and holds it, not allowing Bal to move. His body goes limp, allowing himself to be manhandled into the limo. He rests his forehead on the glass as the car starts moving, turning in place to watch his lover’s spirit fade from view. 

Someone clears his throat delicately behind him, and Castiel turns to face his captor. Mr. Heyer is gorgeous still, sitting poised on the opposite side of the long bench seat and watching him with amusement. Castiel wraps both his arms around himself as the adrenaline runs out of his system, leaving him shaky. He slumps against the door and eyes the other man wearily. 

“Mr. Heyer,” his voice sounds so far away that it might as well be someone else speaking. “I don’t understand what is going on.” 

It is a lie, and the look on Heyer’s face shows that he knows it too. Pieces start to fall into place in the back of Castiel’s head as he gives his kidnapper his wary attention. 

“Please,” Heyer smiles, “Call me Alistair. Ah, I see that Crowley must have mentioned my name. He still likely has no idea that I am the one who damaged his property so effectively the other night. The wonderful thing about the occult community is that with a name like ‘Alistair’, I never really need to give a surname to anyone.” 

Castiel snorts. “Well, at least you admit you're pretentious. Also, I think you’re underestimating Fergus’ ability to jump to conclusions.” 

“I do believe I forgot how lovely you are,” Alistair leers, proffering a glass of champagne. Castiel stares at him sarcastically. 

He shrugs with a smile, downing the glass. “I’m so sorry to have put you through this, but you are such an exquisite tool for discovering information.” 

Castiel barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “You just needed to ask, Mr. Heyer. All you had to do was ask me. Hurting me was not necessary, and this? I won’t help you now. What do you even want from me?” 

Alistair sidles along the huge bench seat, close enough to touch. First he runs his hand over Castiel’s shoulder, down his arm to his hand, taking it into his own with a gentle but insistent pressure. Turning it over, he traces a long delicate finger in a circle on Castiel’s palm. He suppresses a shudder, gritting his teeth and staring into the Alistair’s eyes defiantly. His eyes are green, and Castiel thinks that is the most unfair thing he’s ever seen. Castiel tries to jerk his hand away, but Alistair is stronger, keeping his hand still without effort. 

Alistair starts talking to him in a quiet voice, apologizing for frightening him and for hurting him, his finger making the same pattern against Castiel’s palm. The apology is absurd, and Castiel knows it, but he listens anyway, listens how necessary it was for Alistair to use him to get information, how drugging Castiel was for his own protection, the information he was looking for was dangerous. He couldn’t risk that the session would be remembered. He asks him so very politely to try to understand. His voice is steady and calm, and despite himself, Castiel begins to relax, the jittery feeling in his limbs making way for a heavy pleasant warmth. His jaw unclenches, and his body slumps towards Alistair a little. Soon, Castiel feels oddly focused, his vision narrowing to just Alistair’s face, just his eyes. 

“The Malleus Maleficarum,” Alistair murmurs to him, “is connected to the spiritual world on a fundamental level. Understand that the book is so magical that it has a limited intelligence of its own, and it can use the dead to protect itself. Much like it can twist the living to do its work for it.” 

He stops speaking as if waiting for Castiel to finish the thought for him, still gently tracing the same pattern. Sluggishly, Castiel understands. He feels relaxed, and his voice slurs a bit. “You need me to question spirits _for you_. Things have accelerated, and simply having one ride me so you can do it is too slow now, and with the ghosts being interfered with, probably too dangerous.” 

Alistair’s voice is still a compelling baritone, but the smile that creeps over his lips chills him. “Yes, Castiel, that is the very essence of the problem. You really are quite delightful; I might keep you when we are finished. I need that book, and sadly, time is running out. “ 

Castiel tries to clench his hands, to bite his nails into his palms and wake the hell up, but he just blinks sleepily at the other man. Alistair leans forward to kiss delicately along Castiel’s jaw, and he merely tilts his head to allow access. He feels like his brain is filled with static, and he can’t think. Alistair pulls away to look him in the eyes again, one thumb gently tracing a cheekbone. His eyes are green, but they are the wrong green. It strikes a discordant note within him. 

Slowly, as if swimming through molasses, Castiel deliberately turns his entire body away from Alistair to look out the window, placing his forehead on the cold glass. “You,” he says into the window, “Raped me, Mr. Heyer. That wasn’t for my protection.” 

Alistair leans forward and whispers into his ear, “You can’t rape a whore, Castiel. You were paid for the use of your body. No, no, I don’t think leaping from the car while we are driving is healthy. Think of your friends, my boy. Where will I turn for help if you escape me by plunging out of a speeding car to your death?” 

With one arm wrapped firmly around his waist, anchoring Castiel into his seat, the delicate fingers of Alistair’s other hand pluck the napkin-ward from Castiel’s back pocket. “Winchester,” he drawls quietly. His breath tickles the hair on the back of Castiel’s neck, and it makes him cringe, “Samuel Winchester and his meddler of a brother Dean Winchester, already too close to this, and likely brimming with so much information.” 

“That’s it,” he pets the long, tense line of Castiel’s neck gently. “Let the door handle go. Relax. The car is comfortable, and we will be home soon.” 

Alistair stays pressed against him, holding him fast and stroking his neck while murmuring gentle words meant to calm him. All at once, he lets himself go pliant, letting go of the door and slumping against the seat with his forehead pressed to the window. He rests his head against the glass and concentrates on his breathing, slowly regaining his faculties. With clarity comes the panic. 

No one is coming for him, and he dares not escape. He has to keep this man away from Sam. 


End file.
